


Stop Ignoring Me...Please.

by mortysmithh



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Rating might change depending on where I take the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-15 20:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10557240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortysmithh/pseuds/mortysmithh
Summary: Disenchanted:Disappointed by someone or something previously respected or admired; disillusioned.





	1. Szechuan Sauce

“I- I-I need my fucking Szechuan _sauce_ , Morty!” Rick practically shrieks it out before passing out rather abruptly, drool slipping down out of the corner of his mouth and a drop or two managing to find the ear half smashed into the cement garage floor.

It pisses Morty off more than he’d like to think something so simple would.

With a heavy sigh, he stops only to adjust Rick’s clothing so that he probably won’t strangle himself to death in his sleep before heading up the stairs. When he passes by his mom’s room, he can hear muffled sobbing, a sound too familiar and it makes his heart ache and his face burn with anger, but as soon as his body tenses up, all the fight leaves his form once again.

 _‘It’s not worth it,’_ he thinks to himself in a sort of defeated way, making a mental note to check up on his mother and maybe bake her some muffins. She had loved the poppy seed muffins he’d made for her the last time he walked in on her crying.

It’s only 4:38 in the afternoon, but it feels like he’s aged _years_ and now that he’s alone in his room, with nothing but a locked door and his own thoughts, he strips off his pants and shirt before collapsing facefirst into his bed and _screaming_ into the mattress.

The words aren’t really decipherable, but he gets out every single thing running through his mind, even the awful, terrible thoughts that he’d been desperately trying to push away and avoid even as Rick had shot a portal right after Morty had shot him in the head, after Morty thought he’d killed the grandpa he had just regained.

It’s hours later when he comes back up for good (because nobody can scream into a pillow for three hours straight, not even Morty Smith), face red and shiny with tears and his eyes swollen from yelling and sobbing for hours and hours. He doesn’t check the time before going back downstairs, but he pulls on sweatpants and a ratty old grey tank top, because Rick fucking Sanchez isn’t going to have his Morty wearing his- his fucking _Morty_ t-shirt. He’s not “Rick’s Morty” anymore. He refuses.

Beth doesn’t talk much to him, sees the red rimming his eyes and hands him a pudding cup, followed by a gentle reminder to drink some water and maybe some tea with honey before she, too, walks wordlessly back upstairs. She doesn’t seem upset anymore, but she isn’t numb either; the smile she gave her son was genuine, but there’s a much darker inner turmoil haunting her, and Morty can feel it.

He’ll talk to her later. He has his own emotions to ~~scream~~ sort out.

The pudding cup sits on his desk, two inches away from his hand as he games so long that time becomes, at first, a malleable thing like putty, then slowly shifts into goo. He can hold it, but it slips away if he tries to keep it for too long.

It’s well past midnight when he finally has to take a break, the screen the brightest thing in his room as he leans back in his chair and stretches, vertebrae cracking and muscles sliding against each other as he works out the cramps built up from sitting hunched over for so long.

For a moment, he pauses, however, arms up and stretched, back curved slightly, eyes half-lidded but widening as he looks to the door.

Silence.

It makes him laugh, a bitter sound that wells up out of his chest and leaves in the form of a harsh, almost barked-out kind of chuckle, brows furrowed into a furious scowl as he realizes what he had been waiting for was his grandfather to drag him out of bed and force him on another emotionally scarring ‘adventure’ for the mad scientist’s own gains.

He almost feels like screaming again, but it’s not as upfront this time. The anger welling up inside of him isn’t something that makes him want to punch a wall, or kick the shit out of a boulder, or even stand up to Brad with a clearly faked confidence in his mostly-straight back and the wobble in his scowl.

No, this anger is something much worse. It’s not _just_ anger. It’s disappointment, it’s rage, it’s fear for his mother’s mental state and it’s a mix of emotions that he can’t sort out that his father is now going to be gone, and there were other contributing factors but the two hundred pound weight that broke the camel’s back and shattered it into a million pieces? That was Rick. The divorce is Rick’s fault it’s _his fault_ all of the shit that Morty’s ever gone through was either Rick’s fault or something Rick caused then saved him from.

So instead of wanting to hit his grandfather and instead of wanting to yell and demand an apology, he comes up with something much more vengeful than someone might expect of ‘just a Morty.’ He decides to ignore the old man. Permanently.

“I- I-I won’t even _look_ at the old fart if- if I can help it,” he mutters under his breath, the words filled with spite and the scowl forming on his face much more serious than the other times he’s gotten angry enough to show it.

He tells himself he’s not being a chicken, he’s not avoiding Rick, he just...isn’t thirsty. He ends up practically inhaling the pudding cup (now warm) before going to bed, tired eyes slipping shut and his mind shutting down, putting him to sleep before his vision properly finishes fading.


	2. Seed Pods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not an adventure without Morty. Not really.

Rick wakes him up. Not his alarm, with its insistent, loud beeping, telling him that he needs to wake up and go to school, the same as it has been for the past two and a half years.

Rick _fucking_ Sanchez, grasping Morty by the ankle and shaking him awake in the dead of the night.

The realization wakes him up far more effectively than any sort of alarm or ice cold shower could.

And that’s when he kicks, _hard_ , his sock-clad foot connecting with something soft that makes a pained grunt before he scrambles back up onto the bed that he’d been half-dragged out of before his fuzzy, exhausted mind could take into account just what the fuck was going on. Furious tears well up in his eyes, and he blinks them away, hopes Rick will take it as him trying to shake off the remnants of his drowsiness. Regardless, as soon as he can be kind of sure that the tears are gone, his eyes narrow, anger burning and his entire being practically bristling with furious indignant rage.

“F-Fuck- Fuck off, Rick, holy shit! It’s-” He pauses, pausing to actually blink away sleep grime before checking his phone for the time. “-fucking, i-it’s fucking three in the goddamn morning!” He hisses out; no amount of irritation could make him get loud enough to wake his family up at the same ungodly hours that Rick makes him get up at. “G-Get the fuck out of my room, I- I-I have a test tomorrow, an- and I won’t have you fuck up my- my first year of college!”

For once in his life (or at least, the first time Morty’s been able to witness), Rick is speechless, mouth slightly open and drool slicking his lower lip as he stares at his grandson.

Morty takes full advantage of it, not waiting for Rick to respond as he squares his shoulders and pushes one hand firmly against his grandfather’s chest. When that doesn’t work, he shoves the old man, _hard_ , hard enough that he stumbles backwards and falls flat on his ass, just enough out of the room that Morty can slam the door shut so hard the sound echoes down the hallway, nearly obscuring the resounding clicks and electronic beeps of an automated lock.

Rick tells himself it didn’t hurt to be quite literally kicked out of Morty’s room, tells himself that, if he _really_ wanted, he could just disable the lock, or disintegrate the door. He keeps telling himself lies as he shuffles back downstairs, brow furrowed as he takes a gulp from his trusty flask that drains half of the liquor inside from it before pushing it back into its pocket on his labcoat.

He had expected some sort of resistance, of course, but the way Morty had looked at him…

“You fucked up, Sanchez,” he mutters to himself, staring down at alcohol and grease stained hands before he shakes off the guilt starting to loom over him. He can feel bad for himself after he gets those seed pods from the planet Cyrese.

_‘But your shield isn’t there to protect you, idiot. How are you gonna go without him?’_

Not for the first time, Rick Sanchez’s own thoughts disgust him. He fights it, though it’s not even an attack, really; Morty’s his shield, plain and simple. He just hates that it’s become the regular pattern of thoughts for him to think of the kid as _only_ his shield, and not the close friend that he knows they were at some point.

He feeds himself more lies, washed down with gulps of hard liquor and just a tinge of painfully bitter regret. It’s not boring, he doesn’t miss the sound of Morty’s sleepy voice urging him to go back home, before it’s too late. He absolutely refuses to let himself even consider thinking about the way Morty would stare at him with those large, awestruck eyes, the way he’d look a little conflicted but proud all the same whenever Rick congratulated him on a kill or how well he had stolen those ingredients, without tripping a single alarm. Whenever Rick would ruffle his hair, pull him in for a hug that always lasted just a little too long, but if either party noticed, he didn’t say anything. And he _hates_ how silent the ship is, only the beeping of his artificial shield keeping him company in the otherwise very quiet spacecraft. He almost wishes the damn thing was rattling and making sputtering noises; at least it would give him something to bitch about, something to gruffly spit out ‘shut the fuck up’ at.

He almost misses being able to tell Morty to stop whining without worrying about ruining their relationship, but the alcohol keeps the loneliness at bay and when he lands the ship back in the garage, he simply turns the engine off and falls asleep in the driver’s seat, not noticing the door leading into the house crack open just enough to expose a sliver of a holey grey tank top and one bright, teary eye.

**Author's Note:**

> For mortyslaptop on Tumblr: "Morty is angry and silent, refusing to speak any further to Rick after their exchange in the garage. Rick is tired of his ignoring him."  
> \------  
> What's up fucks I might actually write another chapter for this angsty bullshit instead of the other fic that I've just about abandoned (but I'll try to update it soon!!)
> 
> Have some good ol' angsty RickMorty to ruin your perfectly good day


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